You: A Novel
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Praise for Caroline Kepnes and You:
“Hypnotic and scary.” —Stephen King
“I am RIVETED, AGHAST, AROUSED, you name it. The rare instance when prose and plot are equally delicious.” —Lena Dunham
From debut author Caroline Kepnes comes You, one of Suspense Magazine’s Best Books of 2014, and a brilliant and terrifying novel for the social media age.
When a beautiful, aspiring writer strides into the East Village bookstore where Joe Goldberg works, he does what anyone would do: he Googles the name on her credit card.
There is only one Guinevere Beck in New York City. She has a public Facebook account and Tweets incessantly, telling Joe everything he needs to know: she is simply Beck to her friends, she went to Brown University, she lives on Bank Street, and she’ll be at a bar in Brooklyn tonight—the perfect place for a “chance” meeting.
As Joe invisibly and obsessively takes control of Beck’s life, he orchestrates a series of events to ensure Beck finds herself in his waiting arms. Moving from stalker to boyfriend, Joe transforms himself into Beck’s perfect man, all while quietly removing the obstacles that stand in their way—even if it means murder.
A terrifying exploration of how vulnerable we all are to stalking and manipulation, debut author Caroline Kepnes delivers a razor-sharp novel for our hyper-connected digital age. You is a compulsively readable page-turner that’s being compared to Gone Girl, American Psycho, and Stephen King’s Misery.
My favorite part of the poem: Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands. Except for you, Beck. These past few days, I’ve learned so much. You put your tiny hands to work on yourself when the mood strikes, which it does, often, which reminds me of another joke in Hannah, where Mia Farrow teases Woody Allen that he ruined himself with excessive masturbation. You’re okay, I hope. The trouble with society is that if the average person knew about us—you, alone, orgasming three times a night,
Bridgeport. You rent a car because, as we all know, the Captain is paying. I am stuck in Mr. Mooney’s enormous, old Buick. I do a lot for you, Beck. You’d think I’d be the Captain by now and I don’t listen to any music for the entire drive to Bridgeport. I’m too sad for music, too sad for Elton John and my head aches. O Captain, my Captain I cry. I get to Bridgeport first. The Silver Seahorse is a small motel near the water, one of those joints where all the rooms are off exposed walkways.
sure, Mr. Mooney?” “Where am I going?” “Well, I can take you there if you need.” He waves me off and he won’t need to go anywhere. There’s a dude from church who takes him to the doctor. And at this point in his life, there is nowhere else to go. I should go inside. But I just can’t right now. He turns around. “I’ll bump into ya, kid.” “Thanks, Mr. Mooney.” The door shuts, quietly, and I walk, aimlessly, but somehow I reach my place. One of my typewriters is laughing at me, I swear, because
your fingers go pat-pat and I can’t let go of you or you might back off of me and I might have to face you and I can’t do that. I lasted maybe eight seconds. Nine. I’m running over it in my head and I don’t know how this happened. Maybe I jerked off too much and maybe you teased me too much and maybe I should have locked the door. “No,” you said. “It’s so hot with the door open and the open sign up, right?” I should have been honest with you and told you that the lack of security would only
online through a combination of an old article in Architectual Digest and Google Maps. Now I call Mr. Mooney and ask if it’s okay to go on a road trip and close up for a few days. “Joe, you’re the boss over there now. And you know how I feel about January. It’s a waste. Take a vacation. You’ve earned it.” And I have. All the while, you’ve been e-mailing with Chana and Lynn, who is also on Team Joe, naturally: Lynn: So why don’t you run away with him instead of Peach? You: Please don’t hate